(no subject)
Had another thoroughly exhausting day, but the drabble thing is a good way to relax from same. I loved all I received - "She liked secrets" is the clear winner for opening line, which is ironic, since the story it comes form, about poor Dr. Barnett, is among the least read of yours truly - but especially karabair's fantabulous Lilah story here, and artaxastra's Vader ficlet here. So, I felt compelled to write another drabble. This one is for penknife and from of my most obscure fandoms, 1602, which is an Elizabethan version of the Marvelverse, X-Men and all, written by Neil Gaiman. Wherein one Carlos Javier and one Inquisitor, later revealed as Enrico from the Venetian ghetto who became Enrique the priest, have something of a history...
Carlos dreams, but does not rest. When he is awake, his mind is a fortress guarded of impenetrable basalt walls, unless he wishes to lower the drawbridge. Domdaniel is open and easy to attack in comparison. But when he sleeps, the dreams of his students are with him, and he is prey to their nightmares.
It would be easier to bear if many of them did not wear Enrico’s face. Ever since Werner arrived, their new angel unbound, it has gotten worse, for Enrico is no distant, fearful rumour to Werner. Werner’s nightmares carry the stink of fresh, burning flesh, the sweat of fear and helpless rage while that well-remembered voice informs him he will die, and the cries of his unsaved fellow victims.
Sometimes, Carlos imagines that he hears loathing in Enrico’s voice, and as opposed to Werner believes it is directed at the man he once called friend himself. At other times, he hears nothing but what Werner heard: the murderer despising his victims.
He is not sure which is worse.
Carlos dreams, but does not rest. When he is awake, his mind is a fortress guarded of impenetrable basalt walls, unless he wishes to lower the drawbridge. Domdaniel is open and easy to attack in comparison. But when he sleeps, the dreams of his students are with him, and he is prey to their nightmares.
It would be easier to bear if many of them did not wear Enrico’s face. Ever since Werner arrived, their new angel unbound, it has gotten worse, for Enrico is no distant, fearful rumour to Werner. Werner’s nightmares carry the stink of fresh, burning flesh, the sweat of fear and helpless rage while that well-remembered voice informs him he will die, and the cries of his unsaved fellow victims.
Sometimes, Carlos imagines that he hears loathing in Enrico’s voice, and as opposed to Werner believes it is directed at the man he once called friend himself. At other times, he hears nothing but what Werner heard: the murderer despising his victims.
He is not sure which is worse.